


"The moon is distant from the sea"

by We_May_Choose_Something_Like_a_Star



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Explorative, F/M, Past Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Post TFP, Slow Burn, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_May_Choose_Something_Like_a_Star/pseuds/We_May_Choose_Something_Like_a_Star
Summary: "THE MOON is distant from the sea,And yet with amber handsShe leads him, docile as a boy,Along appointed sands." - Emily Dickinson.'A curtain had been drawn aside between the two brothers, and now one of them stood in front of the other as an open wound, being inspected by the most proficient of doctors.‘"It’s been a long day, Sherlock. There is much to reflect on; not least your sentiments towards Molly Hooper."'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is the first fic I've ever posted on Ao3.  
> I'm still reeling after 'The Final Problem' (wasn't it amazing?!) and felt the need to explore and elucidate the mixed thoughts/emotions I've been left to ponder over in its wake.
> 
> I'm planning for this to be a multi-chapter fic.

  _'_ ** _Once you open your heart, you can’t close it again.’_**

**_'What has been said cannot be unsaid.’_ **

 

______

 

  
_“THE MOON is distant from the sea,_

_And yet with amber hands_

_She leads him, docile as a boy,_

_Along appointed sands._

  
_He never misses a degree;_  
  
_Obedient to her eye,_

_He comes just so far toward the town,_

_Just so far goes away._

  
_Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,_

 _And mine the distant sea,—_  
  
_Obedient to the least command_

_Thine eyes impose on me.” - Emily Dickinson_

 

____

 

    Sherlock sank down into the armchair with a heavy sigh while Mycroft busied himself in front of the hearth. Poker in hand, the Government official knelt before the burgeoning flames, succouring their attempts to grow with a few pieces of kindling and a week-old copy of ‘The Times’. Sherlock watched as the newspaper caught alight, curling into itself like a wounded animal. He watched the embers animate like a writhing serpent, surging up from beneath the incendiaries and striking at the soot-stained flue. With a flick of its tongue the creature reduced the newspaper's small, spidery typography to ashes, along with the events of the past week. If only time itself were as easily erased.  
    Sherlock raised a hand to his face, rubbing it over his forehead, down his nose, across the back of his neck. His knuckles ached and burned and he examined the ugly bruises with which they were covered with a look of distaste. He was reminded, once again, of the events of the past twenty-four hours.  
    ‘What time is it?’ He croaked, his voice thick with disuse. They had barely spoken during the hour-long car journey to Mycroft’s sumptuous Richmond lodgings. It was overwhelming, all of it: Eurus, the Sherrinford deaths, the revelation about Victor… The combined effect had Sherlock feeling, in the words of David Gilmore, “comfortably numb”.  
    ‘Six minuets past four.’  
    Sherlock sniffed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of the chair.  
    ‘I can’t stay.’  
    ‘Of course you can.’ Mycroft placed the poker against the marble lintel, turning a scrutinising eye on his younger brother. ‘What else could you possibly be doing other than resting for the next few hours?’  
    ‘I’m sure I’ll find something.’  
    ‘You need sleep, brother mine. Or you’ll collapse on the street and I shall be held accountable for neglecting my responsibilities as your-’  
    ‘As my what?’  
    Mycroft scowled, the lines of his face knitting themselves to the flickering shadows, ‘as your custodian. Your big brother.’  
    The consulting detective snorted, his voice laced with derision.  
    ‘I should think that ship has long sailed. And by whom do you think you might be appraised on the matter?’  
    ‘Mummy and daddy, of course,’ said Mycroft wryly, ‘And John Watson… and that ridiculous land-lady of yours, and detective inspector Lestrade. In short, your entire retinue of loving, caring associates.’  
    Sherlock rolled his eyes and got to his feet in a flurry of movement, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall and straightening the collar of his shirt with a look of reprove.  
    ‘They know what I’m like. Besides you’ve done quite enough custodian drudgery for the time being.’ His tone, though brisk, was not insincere. Indeed, _‘more than enough’_ was left hanging in the aether.  
    Mycroft glided away from the fireplace, unbuttoning his waistcoat with thoughtful deliberation. His voice softened considerably with the next question:  
    ‘And what about… Miss Hooper?’  
    There was a pregnant pause.  
    Sherlock had stiffened visibly, his eyes not leaving the hardened features of his likeness. He fiddled with the cufflinks on his right sleeve.  
    ‘I doubt she cares very much at this point, what becomes of me.’  
    ‘I should think she cares a great deal. She is, after all, the person who loves you most.’  
    Sherlock turned sharply, fixing his older brother with a wintery stare. ‘Now is not the time to be talking about this, Mycroft.’  
    ‘Then when is, Sherlock? At some point you’re going to have to-’  
    ‘That is precisely _why_ I cannot stay.' Sherlock snapped, his hollow cheeks piqued with colour. 'I… need to speak to her and not,’ he grimaced, running a hand through his hair, which fell greasily against his furrowed brow, ‘not by phone. Face-to-face.’  
    ‘Are you without your mental faculties? You can’t _seriously_ be thinking of going now? It’s not even dawn. Sherlock, you are tired, you are injured, and Molly Hooper is most likely asleep if she’s got any sense.’  
    Mycroft slipped off his waistcoat and settled himself upon the opulent cabriole sofa opposite Sherlock.  
    ‘And besides,’ he continued, looking down at his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. ‘We both know you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret, if you don’t let the events of the past twenty-four hours metabolise enough to make way for coherent thought.’  
    A log cracked in the fireplace, making the two of them jump slightly. Shadows guttered across their faces, casting themselves lissom and agitated, like spider’s legs, in the wake of the men’s tall frames.  
    Sherlock thrust his hands inside his pockets, his gaze trailing the intricate patterns in the carpet.  
    ‘I… hurt her.’ He murmured after several moments, his voice dragging against his throat like something heavy through gravel. Mycroft glanced up, slightly taken aback by his brother’s candidness.  
    ‘Not intentionally. There is a difference.’  
    ‘When I saw that coffin…’  
    ‘You went to pieces. I saw. And then, after Eurus had had her fun, you tore _it_ to pieces.’  
    ‘I let my emotions get the better of me.’ Sherlock said bitterly.  
    ‘Eurus knew which buttons to press to get you to… expose yourself.’ Mycroft sighed. ‘It seems Miss Hooper was the apogee of these; "the big, _red_ button", as it were.’  
    Sherlock frowned at this. ‘The incidence with Molly Hooper was ancillary to the choice between killing you or John, I fail to see how-’  
    ‘Yes but you did not lose your nerve then, did you? You had an answer, you kept it together. But the prospect of hurting Molly caused you to lay bare your deepest emotions. Even to yourself, I dare say.’  
    The icy weight in Sherlock’s stomach seemed to gain mass with every passing second.  
    ‘It was an unbearable cruelness,’ he bit out, ‘to make her say those words.’  
    ‘I’d say it was more unbearable for you, to have to say them yourself. She got one up on you, Sherlock. She made you equally vulnerable.’  
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Sherlock took a step back, levelling his gaze with that of an ugly china beagle on the mantelpiece. The creature’s doleful eyes gazed back at him with a kind of detached sagacity. He felt himself sway slightly with exhaustion, despite the adrenalin still coursing through his veins.  
    ‘Come now, surely even _you_ are not so obtuse’. Mycroft scoffed, watching Sherlock with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.  
    ‘I said what I had to in the moment. It was required, in order to save Molly Hooper’s life.’  
    ‘It is not only what was _said_ , dear brother.’  
    ‘How would you know?’ Snapped Sherlock. A car alarm went off somewhere on the street below, as if sensing the immense pressure - the confusion, anger, sadness and above all fear bubbling up inside him in that moment. _‘So many complicated little emotions, I lost count.’_  
    ‘I wouldn’t.’ Said Mycroft placidly, inspecting his nails against the glow of the fire, ‘but I dare say Miss Hooper would. And I doubt she would have acquiesced if she had thought otherwise - if she had detected even the slightest bit of falsity from you. Regardless of her opinion in the aftermath, in that precise moment Sherlock, she saw your heart, and in return she gave you her own.’  
    The younger man took another step back, turning away from Mycroft with a scowl, his lips pressed together in a thin line.  
    The silence between them was replete, punctuated only by the slight hissing of serpentine creatures in the hearth. A curtain had been drawn aside between the two brothers, and now one of them stood in front of the other as an open wound, being inspected by the most proficient of doctors.  
    ‘It’s been a long day, Sherlock. There is much to reflect on; not least your sentiments towards Molly Hooper. I encourage you to get some sleep, and think further on the matter - and everything else that has happened - in the morning.’

____

In the end Sherlock did sleep. Just a little, enough to feel not quite so bone-tired by the time he woke at a-quarter-past-nine the same morning. Sunlight filtered in through the room’s sole window, divulging a long column of dust, like flakes of burning snow, across the room and the end of Sherlock’s bed. He roused himself from the comfortable mattress and luxurious covers with ruffled, squinting reluctance.                                                                                                                            

The consulting detective was long gone by the time Mycroft had emerged from his own nimbus of bedclothes, little over an hour later. But Sherlock had made sure to leave an uncharacteristic note of thanks on his brother’s bedroom door, complete with a crude and rather unflattering drawing of the dignitary himself; (swashbuckling umbrella quite rightfully included).

The cold winter’s morning greeted him in icy gusts and Sherlock pulled the collar of his Belstaff up more snugly around his chin. As he set off into the rigours of London’s stiff anatomy he had but one thought, one mission, on his vast and troubled mind.

 

____

 

    Molly Hooper sat at the end of her bed, her fingers running absently through the fur of her feline companion, scorning their way along his arched spine as she sought out his favourite scratching-spots. She knew them well enough by now to not have to pay much attention in her ministrations. The cat purred loudly at her side, having resolved to accompany her in her period of grief. He was doing a pretty bad job admittedly, making such an obscene show of content. But Molly hardly minded. She wanted, _needed_ him there with her.  
    As though slogged down by the heavy atmosphere in the room, Toby rolled over and displayed his fluffy white stomach for her attentions, and Molly’s deft fingers happily obliged. She sighed into the cool air of her bedroom, not quite able to sum up the energy to go and turn the heating on. It wasn’t just the incident with Sherlock. It was everything: her life, her profession, her relentless insecurities… all of a sudden it was just all too much.  
    She’d had to deal with a particularly unpleasant post mortem the previous week, the likes of which had her seriously contemplating the merits of her job at Bart’s. Pathology was her calling, her passion. But sometimes it really yanked at her heartstrings. Topping that, she’d been told her thesis on coronary atherosclerotic lesions needed more grounding to be anywhere near publishing-standard; then of course she’d received the news about 221B, then she’d gotten a cold and her period at the same time, and then -  
    She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath through her nose. She wasn’t going to think about it. She wasn’t going to give _him_ the satisfaction of thinking about it. Even if it wasn't his fault, even if there was some sort of explanation behind it all - a concept with which she had been toying indulgently for the past twelve hours or so -  
    She didn’t care. She’d had enough.  
    She rose from the bed, prompting Toby to let out a disparaging yowl, and made her way to the kitchen. With a heavy sigh Molly examined the countertops littered with mugs and cereal bowls, at the bottoms of which dregs of dubious description still lingered, as cold and congealed as the lump in her stomach. She shuddered; she really must stop leaving her window open at night for Toby to drift in and out at leisure. It was winter, he shouldn’t be out there in the cold anyway.  
    ‘Am I becoming a crazy cat lady?’ She asked aloud, glancing at Toby with a weary smile. He chirruped in response, apparently entertained by this concept.  
    There came a sudden, harried rapping at the front door and Molly jumped, rubbing at her bleary eyes with the back of her hand as Toby skittered off into the shadows.  
    A pause… Then it came again, harder this time.  
    She made her way down the stairs, along the dimly-lit entrance hall and towards the door, raising herself up on her toes to look through the peephole. Her suspicions were confirmed when a mop of dark, curly hair met her gaze, below which those keen features were chiselled together in a frown.  
    ‘Molly, I know you’re there. Open the door for me.’  
    She sank back down onto her heels, shrinking away from the door. And then she caught herself, bristled, drew herself up to her full height.  
    ‘Please go away Sherlock. I really don’t feel like talking.’ She felt silly saying this, like a petulant child. But she had every right to be angry, she reasoned with herself.   
    ‘I know you’re upset-‘  
    ‘I said I  _don’t_ feel like talking.’  
    ‘Molly please.’ The strain in his voice, the words he spoke, so perfectly echoed the ones she’d heard mere hours earlier. She felt her heart skip a beat.  
    ‘There is an explanation, there’s a reason for what I… for what happened yesterday.’  
    Molly frowned, running a slender hand through her hair, which hung loose and lank around her face.  
    There was a pause, in which she heard a slight shuffling from the other side of the door. Finally he spoke again, and when he did he brought the whole world crashing down around them.  
    ‘I have a sister.’

____

 

    She gazed up at him, feeling at once tiny and… utterly cosmic - _she_ held the stage here, she would decide how long this man was allowed to stand on her doorstep.  
    Yet the man in question bore his distress so overtly, so unquestionably, that she almost felt the need to avert her gaze. He looked awful. Truly. Not quite as bad as when she'd been called to John’s therapist’s house to give him a full examination. He wasn’t on the sauce again, that was for certain. But he didn’t look good. Dark bags had formed beneath his eyes, attended by several orbiting rings. These, combined with the way his usually-vibrant eyes looked dull and glossed over in the grey morning light, only served to accentuate the overall look of exhaustion and worry. His features, near-sculptural in their elegance, seemed to sink into his face, causing numerous smile and worry lines to appear like hairline cracks - a seismic record of every expression he’d ever worn. She’d never seen him looking quite so… old.  
    ‘What do you mean?’ She asked sharply, though she knew her expression betrayed the depth of her surprise and curiosity.  
    ‘I have a sister.’ He repeated again, his gaze flickering over her face and body as if searching for signs of corporal harm. ‘Eurus. Her name is Eurus, and she…’ he paused, his voice quivering, though from emotion or the icy temperatures Molly wasn’t certain, ‘she is the reason behind that phone call.’  
    Molly looked away, feeling her breath hitch in her chest.  
    ‘How so?’ She tried to suppress the tremor in her voice.  
    ‘May I come in?’  
    ‘No, Sherlock, not until you tell me what happened. _The truth_.’  
    Sherlock sighed, looking at once irritated and defeated. ‘Very well…’

____

 

    And so he did. Sherlock Holmes stood on Molly Hooper’s doorstep, in the sleet and the cold, and recounted the events of the previous day in a bristly monotone. When he reached the moment at which Molly had been forced to lay herself completely bare - both to him and to the three other people present during their conversation, she noticed the sudden change in his tone of voice. It was flooded with… Molly wasn’t sure what - something covert, and yet… desperate. And when he had finished his account she sighed, closed her eyes, pressed a finger to her thin lips. It was so much to take in - too much. She felt numb. There they stood, huddled against the wintery morning air, Molly in naught but a jumper and leggings, Sherlock in his thick Belstaff but shivering nonetheless.  
    ‘May I come in?’ He asked again, softer this time.  
    She frowned at him for a moment, sighed again, shuffled around on the doormat. Then she looked up, and in her eyes Sherlock could see the resolution.  
    ‘I just… It's all just a bit- of a shock. I- Now isn’t a good time, Sherlock. Alright? Can we- could we maybe talk about this, at- at a later date?’  
    Sherlock swallowed, his eyes raking over her features. For once she looked impassive, and it was difficult for him - more difficult than usual, in fact - to discern an outright sentiment on which to focus and programme his next move.  
    ‘I understand.’ He said after a moment, lowering his gaze and stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘But I hope you know, Molly… that…’  
    Molly stared at him, waiting patiently for the words to resolve themselves in his mind. She knew how hard it was sometimes, for him to understand social protocols; particularly when emotion was at the forefront of the conversation.  
    ‘That I care very deeply about… how this may affect our friendship. I would never wish harm upon you, even in an emotional form. Perhaps especially so, given my history of-’ he stopped himself there, cleared his throat.  
    ‘That’s alright. There’s nothing to forgive, Sherlock. You thought you were saving my life - end of.’ Molly ran a hand through her hair, taking in a shard of wintery air and wincing as it slid down into her lungs. ‘I just- just have a lot going on at the moment. This is a bit... huge. I mean, I know it's _much_ bigger for you, a- a sister, and everything, _wow_. But... things are a little hectic with life and work and… everything. I just need some time.’  
    Sherlock nodded, glancing at her once more - holding her gaze - before turning away, pausing just before he reached the first in the set of steps that would lead him back onto the high-street.  
    Molly looked at his back. His tall, dark back, and bit her lip. She slipped back into her flat and shut the door behind her, breathing heavily. She continued to watch through the peephole as he made his way along the pavement, heading in the direction of the nearest Tube station. He effected an odd, loping sort of gait, as if he were sporting an injury. She thought back to his hands. They had been bloodied and bruised and she had had to suppress the overwhelming urge to reach out and take them between her own, to sooth the raw skin beneath her cold fingertips.    
    _What an earth will that man get himself into next?_ Molly thought wearily. What on earth would he get _her_ into next?

 

____

 

    The next few weeks moved sluggishly for Sherlock. In the days following their meeting he had sent Molly a number of texts, and received only stubborn (or so he saw it) reticence on her part. He didn't blame her, to be perfectly honest. But with each unanswered message (brief and perfunctionary as they admittedly were) Sherlock received - in the painful minuets and hours that followed - an aching reminder: confirmation of her continued, less-than-positive sentiments towards him. At the very least he was able to divert his growing concerns regarding the ever-elusive Pathologist by regaining his footing in everyday life. He and John were busy trying to piece together the scattered fragments of what their lives had been prior to those fateful twenty-four hours. The physical embodiment of this venture was of course Baker Street. To put it lightly, the flat was in shambles. Poor Mrs Hudson had nearly keeled over upon seeing the state in which it had been left, in wake of Eurus’ somewhat ( _*ahem*_ ) explosive re-appearance in her big brothers' lives. Despite this, progress on restoring the place to its original splendour seemed to be moving relatively swiftly.  
    On that subject, Sherlock and Mycroft had finally broken the news of Eurus’ survival, and subsequent incarceration at Sherrinford, to their parents. The latter of whom had, of course, not taken the news particularly well, more upset than anything else that their own living, breathing daughter had been kept a secret from them for the past few decades.  
    _‘You were always the grown-up,’_ they had said to Sherlock. This wasn’t entirely true. Sherlock knew this. As did Mycroft, who had remained stoically silent during the latter half of the conversation. He had been the one attempting to espouse the role of parent, care-giver; adult. And in the eyes of Mr and Mrs Holmes, had failed miserably. Sherlock, however, saw the situation differently. He understood his older brother’s motives, and did not resent the decision as much as his parents. Mycroft had only done what he thought was best for his family.  
    Following this difficult revelation, Sherlock - often accompanied by the rest of the Holmes ensemble - had been paying his little sister regular visits. He revelled the time he was able to spend with her, he would not deny it. She was his flesh and blood, another great mind in the Holmes family free. Another ‘enemy’ in that respect; but Sherlock had long-abandoned such notions. He did not care that he was not the shining enigma Eurus embodied, with her near-ethereal intelligence. It had almost destroyed them, after all.  
    Their conversations were quite something to behold, which is precisely what the family did. Sherlock and Eurus would play for hours, conversing - sometimes entirely - through the illicit medium of music. Their violins created a vast symphony of thought, emotion and understanding.  
    Through his dutiful accompaniment to Eurus’ shining virtuosity Sherlock informed his little sister of the inglorious day-to-day happenings of his life: the progress they were making with Baker Street, the cases he and John had waiting once things were back on track, how little Rosie seemed to be growing more intelligent and more beautiful by the day and that she had inherited her all her parents’ best attributes in that respect. Eurus listened and responded with rapt attention, providing a little tweak wherever and whenever she saw fit.  
     It was a language all their own, replete with small quirks and nuances that only they could understand. A near-imperceptible flick of her bow lent the odd note a sense of ardency, uncharacteristic of Bach’s original marshalling of the piece. Such a difference, small though it was, resonated with Sherlock’s own meticulous tempo, causing pause for thought every now and again. An instance of lingering vibrato here, an accoutrement of notations there, repetition of a particular bar ( _‘repeat that again, so that you might better understand it, dear brother’_ ). For the most part they just enjoyed each other’s company, but Eurus knew better than anyone that there was still something missing. Some fragment, some puzzle-piece that had yet to fit into place.  
    _‘And what of your heart, brother-mine?’_ Eurus asked one day, through the sultry peal of the composition Sherlock had written in Irene Adler’s honour. He’d tailored it to her specific shape, using all the proper ‘measurements’, as it were. At the time, the piece had been a way for Sherlock to quantify her far-reaching dimensions in his Mind-Palace, and apply them to some modicum of tangible emotion. Well, tangible for him anyway.  
    Sherlock frowned, responding by skipping straight to the piece’s conclusion, albeit grudgingly. He would be lying (and she of course would know he was lying) if he said that he did not sometimes… yearn for The Woman’s presence. They had, after all, shared several more-than-intimate moments together in the past. But that was exactly what it was, the past. That part of his life was over now.  
    Eurus drew a long, contemplative note from her instrument, her gaze fixed on Sherlock’s; electric blue coursed through rolling ocean waves as their stares met from across the room.  
    _‘And?’_  
_‘What do you mean, "and"? Romantic endeavour is not something with which I choose to concern myself.’_  
_‘No, it is something with which_ I _choose to concern you, silly boy.’_  
    Sherlock stopped playing for a moment, fixing his sister with a calculating look. Eurus responded with a snort.  
    ‘Do stop thinking so hard, you’re turning the already limited ventilation in this room to sludge.’ She drawled, lowering both violin and bow and setting them aside in favour of the large packet of Haribo Sherlock had (rather bemusedly) provided upon her request. She dug around inside for a few seconds, before drawing out a heart and holding it up in his direction. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, regarding the small confection with amusement.  
    ‘Do you know from where and whence this crude rendition of an human organ derives, dear brother?’  
Sherlock sniffed, moving closer to the glass. ‘It is something of an enigma, from what little I have read on the subject. It is not exactly a route of interest towards which I find myself drawn.’  
    ‘That’s a mouthful and a half for "I don’t know". Eurus quipped, popping the sweet into her mouth and chewing with fervour. Sherlock smiled despite himself.  
    ‘Go on then, enlighten me.’  
    ‘Historians are divided on the matter, as is custom for a profession centred entirely around events to which no living persons have or ever will be privy. They do bored me, you know. And of course many, if not all who I have so far come across in text possess the imagination or insight to fill in the gaps, regardless of era or subject matter.’ She sounded bored, but Sherlock could tell she was enjoying herself. He hadn't the heart to tell her to get to the point. ‘However, the general consensus is that this double-lobed monstrosity as we know it, dates back to the ancient Cyrene, and the topical commerce of plant-trading. The plant silpium, the seedpod of which greatly resembles the modern-day commercial heart, was of particular interest, infinitely covetable amongst traders as a means of contraception. Thus, it came to be associated with sex and, later, romantic love.’ Her blue eyes danced beneath long, thick lashes. ‘Biology giving way to sweet, sweet sentiment, brother.’  
    Sherlock nodded his understanding, despite remaining somewhat at a loss as to where this conversation was leading.  
    ‘I’ve always preferred the traditional notion of the heart myself.’ He said amicably. ‘Ventricles and all that, much more intriguing.’  
    ‘More appetising too,’ Eurus said thoughtfully, eyeing the contents of the sweetie bag with a look of distaste.  
    ‘How does this concern my relationship with Irene Adler?’  
    Eurus’ head snapped up in his direction. She gave an odd, pragmatic sort of smile which did not match the cool mirth lurking in the depths of her gaze. She popped a cherry-shaped sweet between her teeth.  
    ‘It doesn’t.’

 


End file.
